Tim Drake, as Robin, allowed himself to get captured by Art Thieves to find out where they were hawking their goods.
He was not expecting to be sold as one of the items, or for roughly half of the villains in attendance to his auction to lose their fucking minds at the sight of him.
Turned out, they had a soft spot for him because of how often he saved their asses back when Bruce was going off the deep end.
So when they saw Robin, tied up and beat up and being auctioned off like a thing to a room full of people who were more likely to keep the kid as some sort of fucked up pet, they lost it.
The building is destroyed. Priceless art ground into the dirt with nary a care. Catwoman herself ripped a priceless, thought to be lost Van Gogh for the sake of stabbing one of the auctioneers in the leg with the frame they had it in.
By the time Batman arrives, Robin is actively trying to talk everyone down from killing the thieves. Trying.
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Jason: *kicks wall* Well, that mission went terribly.
Tim: Bruce is gonna be so angry at me.
Dick: *having read that validating feelings is important* Yeah, that would suck. Last time I made him mad he kicked me out. But I just showed up a month later and he completely forgot. So it’ll work out fine! *cheery smile*
Tim: *eyes wide* He could kick me out?
Jason: *takes out pistol* If he kicks either of you out, I’ll shoot him.
Dick: Thanks, but it’s fine.
Jason: Oh no…I know that look.
Dick tries to hug him and ends up grazed by a bullet. Tim is now worried that he’ll be kicked out. Jason is even angrier than he was at the start.
All of them are extra hurt. None of them are comforted. But it’s the thought that counts.
Hurt/failure to comfort.
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Hey there👋👋 could you please do whatever love language of the bamboos are ??
LOVE LANGUAGE OF THE BATBOYS
A/N: terribly sorry I let this request collect dust. My interest in comics fell as life got hectic and whatever the hell. I won't go all Wattpad author on you.
Dick Grayson’s love language is words of affirmation. At the peak of his characterization, he is a man ravenous for praise and attention. A moment of peace, of relief, of sweetness.
Stunted, yet too grown for his own good—simultaneously. He will seek attention, showering you with gifts and compliments in hopes that you reciprocate. Holidays would read like a HallMark movie that would move suburban mothers to tears.
Dick is also the man to send romantic quotes stolen from Pinterest, and the occasional confusing poem of his own hand. His nerves would grind as he read the ‘’seen’’ stamp beneath his text, worried out of his mind that it didn't properly convey his emotions, his love.
“What, no reply yet? If you're that moved, you could always come kiss me.” He'd send the message, playing it off as a joke. But his stomach groaned with the familiar ache, that cold and empty feeling of uncertainty.
What if she doesn't like it? Will she still like me? Would I seem lame if I double texted? Am I bugging her?
The flames of self doubt would spread and eat at his mind until his phone pinged with a,” it's beautiful, babe. A hard read, but the intention was there.” And a flirtatious emoji paired with it.
Thus, the flames of doubt were stomped out, like they never existed. They liked the poem, and he would spend hours rereading it. Marveling and gushing because you liked it. Something he made.
Jason Todd's love language is acts of service. It's a loyalty thing for him.
Gift sharing could be manipulation; soft words could be lies, and he's too self-loathing to believe them anyway. Red Hood swallows his spare time, and his desire for touch swung on a pendulum—one side thirsting for it, the other side uncomfortable.
The thought of returning home to a nice and warm meal would make him melt into a puddle. Or finding his hero suit washed, and his gear cleaned and stored away.
It reignites a flame in his cold eyes, the domesticity calling forth an unclassified emotion that sent goosebumps blazing over his skin like wildfire, calling his arm hairs to attention.
Jason would return the favor. You would awake to find breakfast made, the aroma of bacon and eggs thick in the air, the sweetness of syrup carrying around the house. Scalding tea trickling into a pot, milk and sugar already on the table. Plates washed and set.
Jason would also do laundry and iron clothes. He gets those random bursts of energy (or adrenaline) and cleans the entire house spotless.
Baths would be drawn for you, and if he's feeling lavish, he'll add roses to the bubbles. The finest soaps would lather your skin, scented with the the best smelling perfumes—business was good, and it was a present. His calloused fingers would be overjoyed to massage your scalp (he hoped you'd do his next).
Tim Drake’s love language is quality time. Also, I would like to preface this section by admitting I haven't read much of Tim.
He would help you study. Textbooks adorning the wooden table after hours of quizzing. Coffee steaming in a mug, pens and highlighters scratching at paper. Kisses shared with each right answer.
He'd tease,” Oh, that was a hard one. A trick question.” A smirk, sweet as frosting would tug on his lips, then a warm kiss would swallow yours.” If I were as filthy minded as Jason, maybe I'd crack a joke.”
Tim’s gaze would find you, in the middle of whatever—washing dishes, doing laundry, exercising. They'd burst with amorous passion, like exploding stars, shimmering and twinkling in his irises.
When the sun kisses Gotham goodnight, and the moon assumes it duty, he'd find himself wishing he could be beside you. Not Batman, not Dick, certainly not Damian. That's not proof that he hates his colleagues or that his work is last on the list of priorities. It's just. . . you're higher.
“Hey, love,” he'd speak into the phone, after the voicemail prompted him.” I know you're likely sleep tonight. But I wanted to at least call and tell you to sleep safe and warm. And to save space for me.” A chuckle would roll of his tongue, the wailing of police sirens in the background.
Damian Wayne's love language is also quality time.
Time is precious to him. His mother’s presence was unreliable. He, his father, his siblings tango with dead every silvery night. Each misfortune in his family reminded him of that.
Robin is not what Dick thinks. It's not just bursting into hideouts and knocking the crap out of villains. The peril is real, as well as the potential for failure—and failure in their line of work means death.
Oracle was paralyzed in a second, one wrong move and her nerves were shot. Jason’s life was quite literally put on a clock, killed by time itself. When Damian was an assassin, it merely took seconds to end a life, one of emotion and desires and opinions—gone at the stroke of a blade.
Time matters.
Damian would try to spend all of it with you, doing anything. Attending museums, painting you, listening to your playlists. Finding the child he was depraved of for so long. Being an angsty teenager and loving it.
“This is considered fun?” A dark eyebrow of his would raise teasingly. There you sat, at a sport's game, the roaring crowd trembling the stadium and stabbing his ears. The golden beam of the sun roasting both you, and the overpriced popcorn tossing and gurgling in his stomach.
But, deep down, the liveliness of the crowd intrigued him. Even he'd find himself screaming along with the masses on their feet, yelling out praise or curse words.
Damian's jade irises would slide over to you, the sheer glee decorating your features. A painting. He'd see a masterpiece in you; how that expression would translate onto a canvas.
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